Grey Sky Rite
by GhostoftheMotif
Summary: There are some things a person can only tell to a stranger, some things they could never confess otherwise. Despite their involvement, Russia and Prussia are still able to fill that position for each other.


**Author's Note:** I'm slowly but surely going to start posting fic from my lj to this account. I, uh… kinda realized I had nearly forty on lj and two on here OTL

With the exception of this week, cuz I'll be on vacation, I'll try to post a new fic/chapter of a fic every Saturday until I'm caught up.

**Warnings for this fic:** Sexual content, language, discussion of possibly disturbing violence (nonsexual and not towards each other)

0o0o0o0o0

An overcast, snow-strewn morning was much more tolerable than the kind that came with a glaring sun; it was rigid and impersonal rather than vibrant and laughing. Prussia told himself that he made this distinction not because of the nations it reminded him of, but because it made his lack of sleep and the transition from night to day less noticeable. The smudge of grey and dark purple beneath his eyes was the only sign his health was less than ideal. His body was still in its standard _perfect_ shape, but damn if he wasn't tired.

Prussia rotated his cigarette and thought that at least he had someone to occupy his time. Russia rarely slept more than two hours, and he'd reached that point in a nation's life when it became unbearable to spend more than a few minutes in the company of his satellite states. It was a nameless accumulation of power, guilt, responsibility, detachment, and genuine affection for their dependents that drove them to seek a stranger rather than those they thought of as family.

Prussia, despite being a dependent under the guise of East Germany, was the stranger of choice, and Russia filled the same necessity for him. Equal and opposite and all that shit.

People tended not to give those sorts of relationships the credit they deserved. There was nothing but blunt honesty between him and Russia, no false pretenses, no expectations, no conflicts of interest. It was completely healthy in that they knew exactly where they stood and anticipated nothing beyond those bounds. Sure, some punches were thrown, but they licked their wounds together over a drink later and bitched about the dirty work their bosses were shoving their hands into.

The end result was that they knew each other explicitly without caring enough to become invested or to betray. It was what both of them needed, and the certainty and complete understanding of what the other wanted was fucking _refreshing_. Throw in some casual sex, booze, and smokes, and Prussia saw no reason why he should ever get out of bed.

Prussia's back was pressed to the cool surface of the headboard, sheets kicked off his body as he bent a knee to rest an arm on. A still-smoldering cigarette dangled from two fingers, smoked down to nothing and essentially worthless. Thin coils of smoke stretched languidly in the dark air accosted by the dawn. Prussia's eyes fixed alternatingly from the bare wall across from the bed and the nation beside him.

Russia was lying on his stomach, head turned to the side to look out the window without any real focus. His arms were folded beneath his torso, the sheets collecting over his hips caught in the grey-white light from Berlin's streets.

Without even thinking about it, Prussia reached down and snuffed out the remains of his cigarette on one of the thick, rectangular patches of white flesh on Russia's back. The other nation gave no acknowledgement of the burn; Prussia had long since learned that the nerves beneath the four geometrical scars were dead. Prussia sank to his side beside Russia, one arm stretched above him as he blew the ash from the pale skin. In a few hours, the circular mark would fade and the raised skin would return to its original state.

He kissed the burn for no reason other than he knew Russia couldn't feel it before dragging himself up to flop down against the pillows. "Weren't you supposed to be out of here an hour ago?"

Russia's body shifted with a breath, and one arm uncurled to bring a hand to tap at the glass of the window. "Weren't you supposed to subdue the protest currently marching past your apartment?"

"Oops," Prussia shrugged, smirking up at the ceiling.

"Likewise."

"You sure your kiddies can handle it?"

"Yes." There was no concern in the word. "I'm unsure whether yours can."

"They're _mine_," Prussia reminded him with a wide grin Russia couldn't see. "If you can't break me, your men can't break them." He tucked his hands behind his head. "Although, to give you your fair due, you aren't exactly _trying_ unless a good fuck is your idea of torture."

"You're more of a use to me like this." Russia said with an unbothered smoothness. "I have enough states groveling at my feet."

Prussia gave a light laugh and turned over, one arm looping around Russia's waist while the other crooked to support his head. He bit idly at Russia's shoulder, holding the pressure for a few seconds before tracing the indentions with his tongue. "Happy to be of service. But eventually we're all gonna get over that wall, and you keeping me like this ain't gonna do a damned thing to slow it down. You know that, right?"

"Yes." It was a simple answer that required little thought.

Prussia propped his chin on a hand, and slid his other hand from Russia's hip to stroke up his spine. It passed through the middle of the four scars, two on either side as if whoever made them had purposefully skipped the vertebrae. "You say that like you won't miss me," he accused, voice thick with sarcasm. "Who are you going to go to after I'm free?"

"You." If it was possible for something to be spoken easily and grudgingly at the same time, Russia managed it. "And you'll still search me out as well. Neither of us have the patience to build this with another nation." He moved his head so that he could look up at Prussia. "Or maybe we won't need it anymore."

Prussia smiled wryly and thought of what they were avoiding. The faces came to his mind in half a breath, two standing stark against the grey outlines of the others. Blonde hair, blue eyes, one smiling with a power too great for his shoulders, the other just trying to look away and not _see_ the wreckage. "Doubtful. This isn't the bed either of us wants, but it's the one we can reach. Just making it over the wall isn't enough to fix everything I've managed to fuck up. And, sorry, but uh, you and America aren't going to be able to work through your shit anytime soon. We're stuck here for a while."

"Then it's a good thing we've learned to appreciate each other's company."

"I don't think _appreciate_ is the right word…" Prussia ran his nails, caked with dust from the streets, over Russia's shoulder blades.

"Ah, my mistake," Russia amended with a sardonic smile. "Tolerate? Endure?"

"Exploit."

A single-syllable laugh fell over Russia's lips, ironic, dry. "Yes, that does have a certain ring to it…"

"Cuz it's true. True things sound like that." Prussia ducked down so that their faces were level, making them look like children sharing secrets. "Just like how me saying you being here has nothing to do with that march outside, and everything to do with you seeing America getting a little too close to France at yesterday's talks, would sound like a fucking brass choir."

Russia's expression lost all semblance of amusement at the same time Prussia's sneer widened. There was an edge of danger there, but Prussia had long since mastered sidestepping it.

"I don't get it," Prussia remarked conversationally. "I mean, with me and Germany… we're brothers. We've had _years._ We know each other. But you and America…" He raked his hand through Russia's hair, pushing the bangs back, letting his fingers come to rest at the nape of his neck. "…I don't get how you guys could have been involved for just a few decades and still have fucked with each other's minds this badly. What are you even hoping to get back?"

The purple eyes sank shut, and his head tilted unconsciously into Prussia's touch. "The rest of my life."

"Is that your _I don't give a damn if Prussia gets this_ answer, because I-"

"You have killed and ruined many people, Prussia," Russia spoke with smooth familiarity. "Of all of us, you seem to have garnered the greatest renown for it… not only as a nation, but as a soldier."

Prussia blinked. "Yeah. I have. And?"

"And does Germany still have faith in you?"

His hand went slack, falling back to the mattress. Something metallic, tinny settled in his chest. "Yeah." His eyes flicked to the side, before speaking softly, "He's the only one."

"Then I do not need to explain this."

"No, I guess you don't."

A brief silence passed between them, one that had been awkward in their first years together but was now understood. Prussia's fingers traced up Russia's side to rest over the small of his back again, thumb brushing a circle over one scar.

"Are there things you'd never tell your brother?" It was one of the questions that Russia asked with the curiosity common in a child, and it was just as difficult not to answer him as it would have been if a child _had_ been the one to ask. There was something still sheltered, still somewhat innocent in Russia when he wondered certain things out loud. It was the only glimmer of such a trait still in him.

Prussia answered without needing much thought. "Yeah."

"Oh?" Russia seemed slightly surprised by this, though his face didn't show it. "I would have expected you to say no."

"Don't get me wrong, there ain't a whole lot I wouldn't tell him, but the bits that I can't…" Prussia shrugged his shoulders. "They're set in stone. Never changing." He studied Russia's expression with an arched eyebrow. "Why are you asking? You got some commie secrets you won't tell your sisters?"

Russia gave a small smirk. "I'll always have those. No, that wasn't my reason for the question."

"Then it's America," Prussia decided. "It's always one or the other."

Russia mimicked Prussia's earlier shrug of the shoulders, his smirk unnatural against the look in his eyes. "I've come to realize that despite what has passed between America and I, there are parts of my life and mind I'd never confide in him." The crooked smile finally fell away. "And yet I'd barely hesitate to tell those same things to you."

"And you're surprised by that?" Prussia laughed skeptically. "If you tell me, I'm not gonna feel any pity for you or get all worked up over it. That's the problem with America, right?" He drummed his fingers on Russia's spine. "You'd hate the response he gave you, hate that look in his eyes. Trust me, I know. I hate it too. Fucking bullshit."

"He could never touch my scars." Russia's eyes fell closed, and he freed one hand from beneath his body to drag Prussia's face forward. Their foreheads rested together as Russia spoke. "His hands would stop at the middle of my back and skip them like he was scared he'd be burned." Tilting his head as much as he could in his position, he brought his mouth to Prussia's. The kiss had no pressure; it was a light, slow, questioning contact that lasted the five seconds in between a breath.

Prussia's hand smoothed over the scars in response, fingers spread wide to graze them all. A great deal of a nation's injuries healed without a mark. The only ones that didn't were the ones the nation couldn't forget. They were a source of fear or anger or regret or resolve, something that stayed etched in their minds. Most nations had at least a dozen.

Russia only had four. That in and of itself said a great deal about the way his mind worked, and Prussia had seen his detachment firsthand too often to be surprised.

Russia's nails dug into the thin skin at his jaw, but he knew it wasn't voluntary. "How can I tell him something he's too afraid to even touch?"

"You don't," Prussia said, syllables clipped through a thin smile. "You don't until he grows up enough to stomach it."

"And if it's… set in stone, as you put it?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know? I guess you just never tell him and get over it."

"You've never asked me about them." Russia observed quietly.

"I don't ask." The fact that it was one of the few facets of their lives that hadn't come out, either through a drink, after sex, or when one of them rushed into the apartment in a rage, hadn't escaped Prussia's notice. He just didn't believe in dragging that kind of information out of people.

In the beginning there was an unspoken rule, part of the no-strings-attached clause of their relationship, that they didn't get personal. About anything. Then they realized that the only condition by which either of them _ever_ shared anything about their past was when the person listening didn't care enough to ever bring it up again. So they made a pass at camaraderie, and it was either reciprocated or it wasn't; both results were good enough. More than that, they listened because _where else were they going to go?_ The information was never asked for. Either it was offered or they went without.

But Russia had never come close to broaching the subject of the scars, no matter how many battles and abuses they recanted.

This morning was different, and Prussia had already known it when their bodies had fallen to the side an hour earlier, still warm and slick and tired of what was happening outside the room's walls. Russia was dancing around offering the information; maybe it was because yesterday had reawakened the discrepancies between his desires and the desires of his boss, maybe it was the driving force of the march outside their window, but Prussia suspected it had more to do with his encounter with America the previous afternoon. Just as Prussia had already been waiting in their apartment of choice because he'd seen a borderguard shoot one of his children in the street, and he'd thought unequivocally of Germany.

Yes, overcast, grey skies were so much easier to think of than the clear blue eyes and sunlit gold they tried so damned hard to strike from their minds.

"Have you ever heard of the rite of dominion?"

Prussia's smile fell from his face, not because he understood, but because he recognized Russia's tone. It was empty, distant. Whatever he was about to say was something heavy, something Prussia had no right to mock. "No," he answered with neutrality.

"I'm not surprised." Russia murmured, hair slipping over his face. "It would have died out in your part of Europe by the time you were old enough for it to matter."

Prussia settled in for a conversation. Despite popular opinion, he was capable of listening; it was his response people usually took offense over. "From the name, I'm guessing… ritual?"

"Yes," Russia confirmed in the same dull voice. "It was a rite that nations underwent to finalize their power over one another. When a nation conquered a land under the influence of our kind, it was believed that the only way to transfer dominion was for the victor to feed on the defeated. Our flesh is our land, our blood is our people. Both had to be consumed for both to be possessed."

A slow, halting thread of stunned horror wound in Prussia's chest as he absorbed what Russia was saying, and his attention came to fully rest on the words. It didn't make sense, and his mouth opened and closed twice before he managed to speak. "Wait… so… Way back when, we _ate_ each other?" His eyes flicked to the wide scars on Russia's back with sick comprehension. Anger flashed white-hot through his thoughts. "But that's bullshit! It doesn't work like that!"

"So we know now," Russia smiled wryly. "In the years of my birth, that knowledge had yet to circle the globe."

Prussia was silent, jaw set, fists clenched.

"They never ate the entire body. Once every turn of the moon, they'd cut away portions for the ruling nation and members of its reigning family. It wasn't meant to kill." Russia's eyes fell half-lidded. "But that was before my sisters and I were born. When we became old enough to sustain ourselves, our mother's wounds didn't heal from the ritual the way a nation's wounds should. There was no need for her to live anymore because beings existed to take her place. So they finished her and moved on to us."

He thought of the family Russia came to him to avoid, the two sisters that obviously meant as much to Russia as Germany did to him. "Ukraine and Belarus..." he started. "They weren't…"

"No." Relief that was centuries old flashed across Russia's face. "They thought that because I was male, I was the land's true heir. They were right, but only because they gave me that importance."

"Christ, how many years…"

"I don't know."

"How _old_ were y-"

"I don't_ know_."

Prussia took the firm, almost vulnerable edge of the response as his cue to shut the hell up.

He never moved his hand. Nothing could have tempted him to.

Finally, when it was apparent that Russia was done talking, Prussia gave something in return. Russia had just told him the horror he'd never tell America; if he didn't reciprocate, it'd make him a bigger bastard than he already was. He struggled with himself, tried to force the words over his tongue. "My siblings didn't die because the tribes unified." Prussia's voice was low, rough, slightly halting as if part of his mind was trying to pull the words back in. "They died because I killed them."

Russia's eyes slid slowly from the wall over Prussia's shoulder to Prussia's face.

"When I realized there wouldn't be a way to keep all of them alive…" He wet his chapped lips, swallowed. "I picked Ludwig from the litter and decided he was the one I wanted to keep. I killed my other brothers, my sisters so that Ludwig would be strong enough to stay alive. Removed the competition." There was something ill in Prussia's eyes, something pained, tormented, and trying to be mad enough to toss the emotions aside. "I told Ludwig they got sick… He grieved, and I… told him there was nothing he could have done."

The other nation was silent, just watched him with the same quiet expression.

"You've always been dead set on keeping your siblings safe; I murdered mine, and I'm never going to tell the one I didn't the truth. Can't imagine what you're thinking of me now," Prussia laughed, trying for nonchalance and ending up with desperation. "I _was trying_ to protect Ludwig. Should've found a way to protect them all." Fuck, he hadn't expected confessing it to do this to him. It felt like something was clawing up his ribs, hot and acrid. "But I was crazed, and I didn't really get a grip on what I'd done until years later. It's funny… I was watching Ludwig playing with a mutt in an alley and thought about a puppy his sister used to have, and it all came rushing in…" Prussia knocked their foreheads together again, eyes open. "At least your secret's something that was done to you. Mine's something I've done to someone else."

Prussia had expected Russia to respond with contempt or disgust; instead he asked a question it wouldn't have occurred to Prussia to ask.

"Did you bury them?" Russia's eyes were locked on his, unwavering.

There were a few beats of silence. "Yeah." Prussia shifted in confusion, expression changing in stages as he tried to get a handle on the cool composure he'd had earlier. "On their land."

"Have you gone to the graves since?"

With a hissed breath, he froze, and a slow, nearly accusing smile curved his mouth. He got it now. His eyes darkened as he looked into Russia's. "You're trying to find some contrition. You want me to tell you I went to their graves and had a nice little breakdown and said I was sorry."

"Did you?" Russia asked simply, eyebrows raising slightly despite his impassive air never changing.

"No." It felt like someone stabbed a needle into his chest and threaded that word through his throat and out his mouth on a red string. "War, I can handle…" Prussia laughed, a short embittered sound. "But hand me some guilt, and I'm a fucking coward."

Russia seemed to have more to say on the subject, but he didn't speak.

Prussia was thankful for that. "Look, man…" He clenched and unclenched his hand over Russia's back, eyes darting to the side and back again. "Can we just… have a drink and pretend we didn't have this conversation?"

A half-smile twisted Russia's lips. "Isn't that what we always do?"

"Yeah, but…"

"We've both shared something neither of us expected to. The content may be different, but it's the same dilemma we continually find ourselves in with each other." Russia pushed on the mattress below him, sitting up. The sheets were behind him, did nothing to cover his body, but Prussia's eyes were still on his face. Russia reached down, cupped Prussia's chin, running a thumb over his mouth. He spoke coolly, evenly. "Our method of forgetting won't have changed."

Prussia sighed a breath over his fingertips and closed his eyes. The expression held for a barely a few seconds before his eyes snapped open and there was a wide, deranged grin on his face. "Method of forgetting what?"

0o0o0o0

When the wall was torn down, Prussia lingered beneath a clear sky and wondered if Russia's path to America would ever be so corporeal and obvious.

Somehow he doubted it.

One of Ludwig's children grabbed his wrist and pulled him up and forward into the hope of reconciliation.

He looked over his shoulder at the last, found the shape of the nation standing in the shadow of a building, the nation that had kept him sane when the rest of the world had expected him to tear Prussia apart.

Russia met his eyes, arms crossed, expressionless.

For a brief moment, Prussia wished the sky had been grey.


End file.
